Moth to the Flame

by Maxine Barry

  Gareth threw his head back, the rich dark waves of his hair sliding back against his temples as his throat arched towards the ceiling. His mouth opened to let the sigh of pleasure escape. His legs threatened to buckle. He could feel a gathering tide of primitive passion rising up inside him. An undeniable, unconquerable sensation of desire that was about to drown him. He was eager to meet it. To swim in its currents. It had been so long since he’d felt so alive.

  Davina closed her eyes as a swift, savage, bitter-sweet wave of loathing and longing surged through her. Without thinking about the folly of what she was doing, not caring a damn about the moral repercussions that tomorrow would bring, she reached out and ripped the shirt apart.

  Pearl-white buttons snapped and zinged past her, one of them hitting a bare piece of floorboard at the edge of the rug with an audible ‘ping’. Gareth’s head snapped back upright. He looked down at the top of her head, the moonlight silvering the soft silky spikes of her hair as she slowly sank down to her knees in front of him. The sight of that nearly made him cry out again. Her fingers went to his zip, her palm slipping inside, the flat of her hand pressing hard against him.

  Gareth moaned, a long, low, lingering sound that was wrenched out from the very depths of his masculinity. He felt himself harden against her, pulsating into her palm, his very being straining for more and more of the intimate contact. He swayed towards her, so weak on his feet now, he wasn’t sure he could stay standing. Davina loved the sound of his voice. Loved the way that sighing moan had sounded so . . . tortured. Good. She wanted to torture him. She wanted to make him groan and beg. She wanted to see that fine, handsome head of his thrashing from side to side as he fought back against the ecstasy. Wanted to . . .

  Gareth reached down and lifted her from the floor. She gave a startled and surprised squeak, but the next instant found herself being laid across the desk. Snuff box, vase, papers and pens, all went slithering to the floor. She just had time to feel the ancient black leather of the centre of the desk pressing into her back, and then he was on top of her.

  His dark hair fell across her forehead as he lowered his lips on to hers. Their mouths fused. She felt her lips tremble under the strength of his, felt his tongue remorselessly seek out hers. She felt the hard pulsating length of him pressing insistently, urgently against her thigh. Felt her breasts melt against the solid wall of his chest. Her body melted with a honeyed, aching, empty heat, and she reached up impatiently to unhook the jeans from her shoulders. She wriggled and arched her back as she tried to get the garment over her tremblingly clenched buttocks. He helped her, lifting her body, but never once taking his lips from hers.

  They were breathing in each other’s air now, exchanging the very stuff of life itself. He lifted his head at last to take in a fresh gulping breath, and then slid down the length of her, to pull the jeans free from her ankles.

  She wasn’t wearing any panties underneath.

  The silver moonlight gilded the blonde triangle at the juncture of her thighs in a loving caress, casting deep and mysterious shadows across her skin. For a second or two he froze, stunned by the perfection of the sight. Then his hands moved up from her ankles, across the calf-high leather boots she wore, his questing fingers emerging from them on to the warm, trembling skin of her calves. His fingers curled around her legs with enough insistent pressure to pull them apart.

  Davina felt her head fall back and dangle against the edge of the desk, giving her a kaleidoscopic upside-down view of the room. She felt his lips on her inner thigh and jerked spasmodically, her arms falling weakly by her side, her fingers curling around the edge of the wooden desk.

  Gareth loved the smell of her, the hot, pulsating nearness of her very femininity. Gently, tentatively, probingly, he pressed his lips against her, kissing her, exploring her, breathing her in before finally delving his tongue deep into the very centre of her. This time Davina screamed. Her soft voice echoed clearly in the darkened, deserted building.

  Her booted feet scrabbled and drummed helplessly against the ransacked drawers of the desk as her body convulsed and pulsated to his every flickering tongue-tip touch.

  He cunningly discovered her engorged clitoris, and as she had sucked on his nipple, now he sucked on her, his hands coming out to press her waist firmly to the table as she tried to arch on the desk. His hands encountered the warm wool of her polo-neck jumper, and moved underneath it, reaching up, cupping her breasts. His thumbs found her nipples, and as he pressed his face harder against her, ruthlessly increasing the growing, spiralling pleasure there, so his thumbs stroked her breasts. Her body, raided on two pleasure fronts, quivered in satiated defeat.

  Davina’s head arched back in a spasm of ecstasy as her body shuddered in the dance of orgasm. She let out a long, wavering moan, then slowly collapsed back against the desk, weak and compliant in every pore.

  Gareth lifted his head, a heady sense of accomplishment washing over him, then slowly moved back up her body, pulling the polo-neck up and over her head as he did so. Obediently she raised her arms, and he let the garment fall on to the floor beneath them. It glowed white in the moonlight, against the dark rug. Gareth stared at her, hardly able to believe the beauty of her body. She was spread-eagled across the desk now, gloriously naked and silvered in the moonlight, her slim figure bathed in a fine sheen of perspiration that made her glow. She was breathing harshly—deep, ragged breaths that made her breasts rise and fall in agitation.

  He groaned at the sight of those perfect, pale orbs, with their darkened cherry-coloured aureoles, and leaned forward to kiss them. Davina’s hands came out to cup his dark head tenderly against her. His hair felt like pure silk beneath her fingertips. She pulled his head towards her, fastening her lips greedily on to his. It no longer mattered that he was also her enemy. It no longer mattered that she was intending to destroy him. Now, just at this moment, he was her lover, and she wanted him. She wanted his hard strength and powerful masculinity; to gain every last ounce of pleasure to be had for both of them before, totally exhausted, they sought oblivion in each other’s arms.

  Her hands went once more to his zip, and Gareth quickly knelt above her, his knees to either side of her waist as he helped her in her quest. Davina leaned forward to help as he quickly stripped the remaining clothes from his body, inflaming his ardour as she trailed her moist lips down the long line of his throat to the hollows at the base of his neck. Pressing featherlight kisses to the firm, tanned skin of his broad shoulders, she savoured the musky, masculine scent of his warm flesh, revelling in her power as his breathing became laboured, his tall frame shuddering in response to her increasingly intimate touch.

  ‘I want you!’ Davina pleaded, unable to bear the wait any longer. She clutched wildly at his shoulders, pulling him down on top of her and moaning helplessly as she wound her long legs about his strong torso, her whole being vibrating in response as he drove himself deeply into her. A low groan broke from his throat as he found himself encased in hot velvet steel, abandoning the struggle to maintain control as he surrendered to the sweetest temptation of all.

  It had been a long time since he’d made love to a woman, let alone a firebrand like Davina, but he instinctively knew that this encounter would be like no other. And Davina also found herself transported to another plane, transfixed with wonder and unable to believe that what had initially started out as part of her revenge, should now find her so helplessly caught in the overwhelmingly erotic toils of her own overwhelming need and desire.

  The shafts of pale moonlight were throwing into sharp relief the chiselled planes of his face—the clenched jaw, the expanse of his high cheekbones, the contours of his firm mouth. He looked magnificent—an almost primeval male animal, who was filling her with his strong hard length.

  ‘Open your eyes . . . look at me,’ she begged, needing to glimpse those grey eyes darken in helpless desire; to see them widening in ecstasy as he reached his climax. What-ever her original plan, she now desperately wanted . . .
helplessly needed . . . the satisfaction which it seemed that only this man could give her. Because he was no longer a willing prisoner, caught in the honey trap of her body. When his eyes snapped open there was fire in those storm-grey depths. A slight smile played on his lips as he gazed down at her tenderly. And then, firmly in the grip of his passionate need, his eyes grew cloudy and opaque as the slow rhythmic movements of his body gave way to increasingly more powerful thrusts as he lunged into her, again and again.

  Her body writhed helplessly beneath him, but there was no escape from the pleasure-giving power of his love-making. Gareth watched as the tight, tension-filled expression on her face gradually altered, giving way to a dazed smile of sheer, exquisite ecstasy, and then became aware of his own body responding to her helpless moans; the sound igniting a flame of red-hot passion, burning with a scorching, ever-increasing intensity and now totally beyond his control.

  ‘Davina!’ he whispered. ‘My wonderful, wicked, dangerous . . . Davina!’

  She cried out and arched as the world around her seemed to shatter into fragments of light and power. She lost all conscious thought as her whole frame was convulsed by an orgasm so powerful that it seemed as though she was going to faint. Her mind went to a place it had never been before. Her body fused with his, seemed to merge and then reemerge, changed for ever. Gareth felt himself explode into her. Felt the strength leave his arms as he collapsed on top of her. He didn’t know whether he was alive or dead. He didn’t care. He only knew he never wanted to feel any other way, for as long as he lived.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  March had come in, not like a lion, but like a sunburst, determined to spread goodwill and the joys of spring. In his room, Jared rolled out of bed and pushed open his creaky, diamond lead-paned window. The daffodils were blooming in golden ranks outside the Library, and a blackbird was singing to his mate in the ancient, twisted ivy.

  It was a perfect day for punting on the Cherwell. Being mid-week, and March, he doubted the Isis would be overrun. He had, of course, no intention of messing about on the water on his own. Oh no. He had a definite companion in mind.

  He dressed carefully in his best shirt and began to whistle. He reached for his newest pair of jeans, pulled on socks, then trainers. A thorough brushing of his teeth, a very quick brush of his tangled mop of hair, and he was ready. He didn’t, however, head straight for Webster. Instead he went out of one of the postern gates, moving into a full-fledged loping run as he headed towards Little Clarendon Street. There he found the small, select, rather pricey shop that served as a second Pantry to the more well-heeled members of the Oxford Colleges.

  He knew it was madness to splurge so much on a picnic, but what the hell? If March could rouse itself to present him with such a warm, Spring-like morning, he could go wild too. Besides, working as a waiter in Browns during the holidays was no great hardship. If he bankrupted himself this morning, he had all of the Easter vacation to earn some more cash.

  The moment he stepped into the small, dark, cramped, higgledy-piggledy shop, the plethora of stomach-rumbling smells hit him. Freshly baked garlic bread, meats and cheeses, and the more exotic offerings of oysters and Parma ham.

  He picked up a wicker basket and began to make careful choices, selecting two ripe peaches, a soft, creamy, Brie, a loaf of still-hot French bread and a farmhouse pâté. Deciding he might as well be in for a penny as for a pound, he added a half bottle of champagne and two cartons of orange juice, to make some buck’s fizz.

  He paid for his choices at the counter, emptying his pockets with determined cheerfulness. If life wasn’t for the living, then what was it for? He left the shop, wishing he had a proper wicker basket, and as he jogged back to college, Jared suddenly remembered whom he could scrounge one from.

  Alicia was at her desk, planning out the essay Dr Lacey had set her yesterday. She rather thought that he suspected her secret ambition to write murder mysteries, for he’d given her a piece on Edgar Allan Poe’s Murder in the Rue Morgue. Of course, he’d asked her to compare the style of that novel to his much more famous poem, ‘The Raven’, but even so . . .

  The sudden rap on the door was so loud in the quiet building that it made her nearly jump out of her skin. When she threw open the door to see Jared standing there, a wide grin on his face and an intriguing wicker picnic hamper in his hand, she felt the familiar sense of flustered excitement warm her face.

  ‘Jared. I didn’t think we were meeting until tonight,’ she muttered. They were due to have another play-plotting-blitz after Dinner.

  ‘True. But have you seen the day outside?’

  Alicia had. Such brilliant sunshine was hard to miss. She glanced down at the hamper, trying not to get her hopes up.

  ‘I can see you’re studying,’ Jared said softly, glancing at the chaos on her desk, ‘but I was hoping to lure you out on to the Cherwell. For a punt, a picnic . . . perhaps a song or two, if we stop off at Christ Church to listen to the choirboys practise . . .’

  Alicia caught her breath. It sounded so ideal. So romantic. ‘With me?’ she asked stupidly. Jared looked into those wide, surprised blue eyes, and laughed. ‘No. With your friend Emily! Of course with you, twit.’

  Alicia blushed. ‘Oh.’

  Jared waited, then swapped the picnic basket to his other hand. ‘I would like an answer before the end of term, if you don’t mind,’ he teased outrageously. She was so easy to tease, it was almost irresistible.

  Alicia flushed again. ‘Oh. Yes. Of course. I . . . er . . . I’ll get my coat.’ He watched her snatch up a grey raincoat. She was wearing a pale lavender cashmere sweater, over cream linen slacks. Her long mass of raven-black hair was caught up in a mauve and cream silk scarf, the ends of which hung down her back, amongst the raven tresses. She looked ready for the catwalk, let alone a slightly dusty, slightly damp punt. She tossed the grey coat around her shoulders and gave him a brilliant smile.

  Jared tried to catch his breath, thought better of it, and shrugged ruefully instead. When he was around Alicia, he was getting used to experiencing breathing difficulties. He held the door wide open for her, and with an exaggerated arm gesture and bend of the waist, he bowed her through the door. ‘Shall we go?’

  They walked slowly down St Giles, up to Carfax, where the mechanical figures came out to chime the hour of ten o’clock. Then up The High, past Lincoln College, All Souls, Queens, and St Edmund’s Hall, past the aptly named Long Wall Street and finally towards Magdalen Bridge and the small punt rental shack not far from Magdalen College itself.

  Jared selected the best, newest (and driest) punt, and reached for a long, fibre-glass pole, getting in with ease. Alicia, amused and awed by his casual nerve, allowed herself to be guided gallantly into the punt, and sat, a bit gingerly, on the middle strut.

  ‘No, no, not like that,’ Jared said, sorrowfully shaking his head. ‘You’re supposed to lean back at the far end, and drape your arm gracefully over the side, to trail a few maidenly fingers into the water.’

  Alicia grinned, and obligingly sat at the far end, stretching out in a surprisingly comfortable position on the floor of the punt. But her fingers she was keeping strictly to herself. Warm day or not, it was still March, and she was not about to stick her hand into an icy river!

  It had been some time since Jared had last been in a punt. After a few false starts, some hilarious wobbles and frantic windmilling of arms, though, he finally managed to push away from the jetty, pole them out into the middle of the river and to manoeuvre them, with growing skill and confidence, under Magdalen Street and away from the sound of the city’s traffic. The simple action of pole in, firm push, pole out, quick but smooth hand action back to the top of the pole for the next push, soon came back to him.

  They hadn’t rushed their walk up The High, so it was already past eleven o’clock when they encountered the loop in the river just past the Bridge, and he poled the punt towards the right, where St Hilda’s sprawled towards the river Cherwell.

 
Almond blossom was out everywhere, lacing the river-banks, roads and gardens with frothing pink blossom. The sun was so high now, and so unseasonably warm, that Alicia slipped the grey coat from her shoulders and leaned her head back, tilting her face up to the sun. Jared, watching her, very nearly lost his pole. He hastily freed it, brought it smoothly back up, and ruefully told himself to concentrate on his river craft, unless he wanted to find them floating helplessly in the current without any way of making it to the nearest bank!

  In front and slightly to the left of them loomed the vast green expanse of Christ Church meadow, with its browsing cattle, a pastoral delight right the heart of the city.

  ‘I thought this Oxford only existed in Evelyn Waugh novels,’ Alicia murmured, thinking of Brideshead Revisited. ‘It’s so hard to realise it’s only March. It feels like high summer.’

  ‘I know,’ Jared murmured, keeping a wary eye on a pair of nesting swans on the far bank. Alicia saw them too and sat up. ‘Oh Jared look! Aren’t they lovely? Have we got any bread for them?’

  We have. Some very prestigious, freshly baked French bread. But I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘Skinflint!’ she teased, flashing him a white-toothed grin.

  ‘Miserliness has nothing to do with it!’ he defended himself righteously. ‘If you weren’t such a city slicker, you’d know that they’re nesting and breeding right now, and the cob can get very territorial. The last thing we want is for him to think we’re making improper advances to his mate and come flapping over here, honking and hissing, and capsizing us!’

  ‘Chicken!’ she jeered, then wondered at her own bravery. She’d never teased and bantered with a man like this before. Would never even have considered it.

  Jared grunted. ‘Hah! You say that now, but if he started coming over here, flapping those enormous wings of his, you’d soon start singing a different tune!’

  Alicia thought he was probably right.